


Those Three Little Words

by Lexalicious70



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Peril
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-05
Updated: 2019-09-05
Packaged: 2020-10-10 16:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20530985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lexalicious70/pseuds/Lexalicious70
Summary: Eliot can no longer deny it: he’s hopelessly in love with Quentin Coldwater. But saying “I love you” for the first time needs a perfect moment, especially when you’re the High King of Fillory. Can Eliot create that perfect moment, or will the unpredictable and sometimes-dangerous creatures of that magical land end his chance—and their lives—before he can make it happen?





	Those Three Little Words

**Author's Note:**

> This is for the Whitespire’s Armory Challenge, Week 7, “Love.” I don’t own The Magicians, this just for fun and because writing is like air for me. All errors are my own, and comments and kudos are magic. Enjoy!

“I’m in love with Quentin, Margo.”

Eliot’s words caused Margo to glance up from the scroll she was reading. Each end was weighted down with silver statues in the shape of two of Fillory’s questing creatures.

“And when did you come to that revelation?” She asked. Eliot, perched backward on a nearby chair in the common room he, Margo and Quentin shared as a place to strategize and regroup, tipped his amber eyes up to her dark ones.

“I didn’t—at least not recently. I just thought saying it out loud would give me some kind of accountability.”

Margo abandoned the scroll—the goddamned thing wasn’t telling her anything she didn’t already know—and went over to crouch by Eliot’s knee.

“All right, so you’ve said the words out loud. But I think it’d be more helpful if Q was actually in the same room with you.”  


“I know. It’s just . . . is there a right time and place to say ‘I love you’ to someone for the first time? Shouldn’t it be perfect?”

“Well,” Margo replied as she placed a hand on his knee, “I’m no expert when it comes to love, fuck knows, but I have seen a lot of movies where people in love create perfect moments.”

“You mean candlelight dinners, roses, all those trappings?” Eliot asked, and Margo tilted her head to one side.

“Maybe for other people. But this is Q. He loves magic, El, and Fillory is full of magical places. If you’re going to make any kind of declaration, make it here instead of some fancy restaurant in Manhattan.”

Eliot turned in the chair and got to his feet, tugging Margo out of her crouch at the same time and spinning her in a graceful circle, the light from the room’s torches glinting off the silver buttons on his lapis-colored Fillorian jacket.

“What would I do without you?” Eliot asked, kissing her on the forehead, and Margo smiled up at him.

“Live and rule in misery?”

“Most likely,” he nodded before turning toward the common room door and calling for Tick. The rotund little man came bustling down the hallway a moment later.

“Yes, your highness?”

“Have the stable saddle my horse, Tick. I’m going on a brief excursion.”

***

Eliot left the castle alone a short time later, despite Tick’s objections. While he usually rode with at least two guards and often with Tick, who rode a pony as stout as he was, this was a personal and private mission, and Eliot didn’t want anyone in the castle spilling the beans to Quentin. Whitespire was a hub of gossip with Tick at the top of the heap, and while that could sometimes be helpful to Eliot as High King, this felt more delicate than any spell he’d ever cast.

He rode his palomino gelding, Midas, east toward the Flying Forest yet skirting the enchanted woods themselves by traversing a high but sturdy trail on a ridge that opened up into a wide glen. The grass was lush and dotted with trees drooping with fragrant blossoms in red and yellow. Eliot urged Midas forward and crossed the glen, the smell of growing things filling his senses. At the opposite end of the glen, thick, verdant shrubs surrounded the highest crest of a waterfall, which spilled clear, silver-white water down into a pool so inviting that Eliot’s skin tingled with the desire to plummet in. He turned Midas in slow circles and nodded.

“A picnic,” he murmured. “I’ll bring Q here for a picnic. The trees, the waterfall . . . it’s perfect!”

Midas tossed his head and his hindquarters tensed, bringing Eliot out of his thoughts.

“Whoa, hey!” He reined the gelding in and frowned as the horse disobeyed long enough to spin in a circle. “Easy! What’s the matter with you?”

Midas gave a deep snort and Eliot stroked his neck. He’d bought the horse at auction where it was sold for only a few coppers because unlike his dam, the palomino didn’t speak. Eliot had appreciated his beauty and sensed his capacity for speed, but as his skin prickled in a different way, he wished the horse had been born with the ability to speak.

“You’re fine!” Eliot said, as much to himself as to his spooked mount. “It’s just the sound of the waterfall. Come on—” Eliot turned Midas to cross the glen and return to the path that would lead them back down the ridge. “—quit being a scaredy-colt!”

Midas gave one last snort of protest and jogged across the glen, the sun glinting off his golden hide.

Behind them, in the lush, wild hedges, something watched their retreat.

***

It took Margo’s help and a bit of planning for Eliot to whisk Quentin away to the glade. One king riding alone was cause enough for the castle guards to worry, but two unescorted monarchs might cause a panic, so Margo announced that the three royals would be in a closed meeting for most of the day as Eliot and Quentin slipped out a little-used side door, where Eliot had horses packed up and waiting. As they trotted away toward the ridge, Quentin bounced up alongside Eliot on a mute but friendly bay. His own talking mount, Dauntless, was ready to foal and resting back at the stables.

“Where are we going?” He asked Eliot as he slowed the bay to a brisk walk. Eliot glanced over.

“It’s a surprise.”

“I don’t always like surprises.”

“You might like this one.” Eliot turned off the forest path and onto the ridge. As they climbed, they could see the Rainbow Bridge, a ribbon of color off to their left and beyond that, the stark shores of Coronation Beach. “Remember the day we crowned each other?”

“Yeah,” Quentin smiled. “I made that stupid speech.”

“It wasn’t stupid, Q. I appreciated every word, and you made me want to be a good king.”

Quentin blinked as his bay picked its way around larger stones and pockets of spiny weeds.

“Seriously?”

“Yes. It hasn’t been particularly easy these past few months, but having you and Margo with me has made all the difference.” He smiled as they reach the crest of the ridge. “I’m glad you’re here, Q.”

The trail narrowed then, forcing Quentin to fall back behind Midas, but not before Eliot caught a blush staining the younger magician’s cheeks. The path opened up into the sun-drenched glade a few moments later and Eliot reined Midas to a halt as he looked over his shoulder. Quentin was staring at the meadow in disbelief.

“Holy shit!” He said as he trotted up and came to an ungainly halt—horseback riding wasn’t exactly one of his talents, despite all those summers at junior cowboy camp. “What is this place? How did you find it?”

“I happened to come across it on a ride the other day,” Eliot said as he swung down from his horse. “I thought you might like to see it. Listen . . .”

Quentin cocked his head to one side and then smiled.

“Is that a waterfall?”

“It is.” Eliot helped Quentin down off his horse and left the mounts to graze after confining them with a corralling spell. Eliot led his friend across the glade, where the thundering of the falls grew louder. The cascading ribbon of silver water finally came into view, and Quentin’s face lit up in a way that made Eliot’s heart give an excited skip.

“Look at this place!” Quentin said, pushing a lock of tawny hair behind one ear. “Do you think it has a name?”

“I don’t know. Surely others have been up here. The grass is so lush, I’m amazed no one’s farmed it out.”

Eliot paused. “But I didn’t bring you here just to show you the sights.” He raised both hands and tutted as he murmured a spell. A blanket and a wicked basket materialized at their feet a moment later and Quentin’s expression shifted to one of puzzlement.

“What? You’ve never been on a picnic before?” Eliot smiled.

“Uhm, sure, I . . . in Central Park when I was a kid and my folks were still together. Not so much since then, I guess.”

“It struck me as an ideal spot.” Eliot flapped out the blanket until it settled out flat on the grass and knelt down as he patted the spot nearest him. “Have a seat, Q.”

Quentin crouched like someone trying to settle himself into a hot bath and finally tucked his legs up under his thighs before tugging off his sweater. Eliot watched, amused and more than a bit aroused as Quentin struggled to pull the thing off and the tee shirt underneath became untucked, showing a wide strip of skin and a hint of glory trail. He finally freed himself and Eliot chuckled, resisting the urge to smooth down Quentin’s hair.

“Better?”

“Yeah.” Quentin set the sweater aside and peeked into the wicker basket. “Sandwiches, fruit, cake, lemonade—where the hell did you get lemonade, El?” He laughed, and Eliot shrugged a shoulder.

“Well, it’s easier to concoct than champagne.”

“The Lemonade King. It does have a ring to it,” Quentin grinned, and Eliot gave him a nudge as he took out a pair of simple travel cups and poured them each a glass. They sipped, and Quentin glanced around. “It really is beautiful here.”

“It is. I wanted to show you—and be alone with you, too.”

Quentin looked up at him.

“You did?”

“Yes, Q. You see, I—” Eliot paused as he turned to face his friend on the soft checkered blanket. “We’ve been here for several months now, and I know you’ve been through hell. The Beast, and—”

“And Alice,” Quentin murmured. Eliot nodded.

“I know how much losing her hurt you. And I hope that Margo and I have given you some sort of comfort, even if it’s not exactly our specialty.”

“You have.” Quentin raised his head again, his dark eyes bright with unshed tears. “If I’d had been alone, I . . . I don’t know what I would have been like.” He mustered up a smile. “I’m glad you were both here.”

“I’m glad you feel that way, Q. But I—” Eliot paused, frowning, as a minute rustling noise came from the thick hedges near the waterfall, then ceased.

_Rabbit, maybe. Or a talking something-or-other, _he thought to himself.

“El?” Quentin prodded, and Eliot picked up his previous train of thought.

“Sorry. I thought bringing you up here would make this easier—” That rustling sound again. Because what I wanted to tell you, Q, is—”

_THWACK!_ A sharp noise, like the crack of a whip split the air, and Quentin was no longer sitting beside him. Eliot blinked and opened his mouth to speak when something flexible but strong, like a thick rubber cable, wrapped around his waist and pinned his arms to his sides. Behind him, Quentin cried out in panic and fear as a massive, writhing shape rose from the bushes—a shape that now had both of them in its clutches.

***

“Your highness? Your highness! Please, I must speak with you!”

Margo glanced up from her glass of wine and erotic novel (thank Christ for cheap bookstores in the Village and traveling portals,) and frowned at the urgency in Tick’s voice. She set the glass and book aside and went to unlock the common room door, opening the heavy wooden thing a crack.

“What is it, Tick? I told you we can’t be disturbed!”

“I ask forgiveness, your highness, but this concerns the safety of the High King and King Quentin!”

“I’m gonna need a bit more than that,” Margo replied as she stepped out into the hallway and closed the door.

“Her highness understands that I am not one to involve myself in rumor and gossip . . .”

“You, Tick? Of course not,” Margo glanced at her lacquered nails. “But?”

“There was talk, your grace, of the kings riding south toward the Piebald Ridge, for reasons unknown. I do not know if these rumors are true, but if there is any credence to them, then the lives of our kings may be in danger.”

“Talk faster!” Margo snapped. “What kind of danger?”

“The Glittering Glen and its waterfall offer some of the most breathtaking views of Fillory, but they are also home to some of its carnivorous plants. You may recall that there are some species right here in Whitespire’s garden—”

“Yeah, and they fucking ate the gardener!”

“Indeed. And the species that grow wild in that glen are even more aggressive, I’m afraid.”

“Form a party of armed guards and saddle my horse! We need to get up to that glen before El and Quentin star in the Fillorian version of Little Shop of Horrors!”

“Your grace?” Tick frowned.

“Jesus, I’ll explain the reference later! Move!”

***

“Q, can you reach my hand?”

“My arms are pinned to my sides! What is this thing, El?”

“I don’t know! But it’s either pissed or hungry—” Eliot squirmed as one of the vines forced his hands down to his side and pinned them there so he couldn’t cast. The bushes rustled wildly and a plant emerged on a greenish-brown stalk the width of a sedan. The mouth itself resembled an undulating, open banana peel and Quentin’s eyes widened as it revealed itself.

“Oh, shit! Shit, _shit!” _He gasped. Eliot focused inwardly for a moment, trying to tap into his telekinesis, but inward-facing thorns on the vines that had him and Quentin trapped pierced his skin. They were coated with venom and his mind fogged over as his muscles went slack and useless. Quentin’s dark eyes were equally glassy, and as they were pulled toward the mouth of the carnivorous plant, Eliot realized his efforts at creating the perfect moment had brought on their last ones, instead.

_Oh, Q. I’m so sorry . . . _

“El . . .” Quentin murmured as they were dragged along side by side, and Eliot turned his head to stare into Quentin’s dark eyes.

“I didn’t mean to get us into this,” Eliot slurred, the brain fog becoming thicker. “I only wanted to . . .” He struggled to find one last moment of focus. “I love you, Quentin.”

Quentin blinked at him and an odd noise, like the distant call of horns, filled Eliot’s ears.

_Is this what it sounds like to die? _

The noise grew louder then, and voices mixed with what Eliot eventually recognized as his royal guards’ call to arms. The vines that held him went slack a moment a later, and Margo’s face swam into view, distorted and blurry. He tried to speak, to warn her, but darkness dropped a veil over his mind.

***

Fever held sway over Eliot’s consciousness for nearly three days. When the effects of the plant’s venom finally began to fade thanks to treatments by Whitespire’s physicians, Eliot found himself in his royal bedchambers, dressed in his favorite robe, with Margo sitting beside him. Relief warred with annoyance in her dark eyes as she watched him come around.

“Well. It’s about fucking time,” she said, but her touch was gentle as she smoothed back his curls. He managed a smile.

“Hey, Bambi.”

“That’s all you have to say after I had to form a goddamned posse to keep you and Q from being eaten by a giant Fillorian plantain?”

“Q!” Eliot sat up, ignoring the jolt of pain it caused. “Where is he? Did that thing . . . did it . . . “

“No, thank fuck. Our guards killed that overgrown Audrey 2 before it could swallow either of you. He woke up this morning and he’s in his room, resting.”

“I have to go see him.” Eliot threw the duvet aside and Margo sighed.

“Since I know there’s no stopping you, at least let me help you. The castle doctor said that plant’s venom packs a fucking wallop. Thank Christ there’s a cure for it.”

Eliot got to his feet and found his balance. He felt weak and slightly dizzy, as if he’d suffered a serious case of heatstroke. Margo took his arm.

“C’mon,” she gave him a wry smile as they left his room and headed down the hall. “You aren’t going to believe this, but castle gossip saved your ass. Some of the wall guards saw you and Q riding up the ridge and it got back to Tick and his people. If he hadn’t come and told me, you and Q would be staring out the back end of that plant by now.”

Eliot frowned as his stomach turned.

“Margo, Jesus!”

“Maybe that’s just my way of saying be more careful the next time you get any romantic notions in your head.” She paused by Quentin’s door and rose up on her tiptoes to kiss Eliot’s cheek.

“I’m glad you’re all right. Tell Q I’ll come see him in a little while.”

“Will do. Thanks for bringing the Calvary, Bambi.”

“Remember it the next time I piss you off!” Margo laughed as she vanished around the corner. Eliot knocked on Quentin’s door before opening it a crack.

“Q? Are you awake? It’s me.”

“Eliot!” Quentin sat up. Hey!”

“No no . . . don’t get up.” Eliot opened the door wider and stepped inside. Quentin shifted over so he could sit.

“When did you wake up?” Quentin asked, and Eliot sighed.

“About fifteen minutes ago.”

“Then you should be in bed!”

“Fair enough. Budge up.” Eliot nudged Quentin over until there was enough room for him to lie down. Quentin blinked but didn’t protest. “So. How are you feeling?”

“Kind of weak, and my joints ache, but the doctors say that’ll fade over the next couple of days with the antivenom treatments. I guess we were lucky—those plants are aggressive and they’ll eat almost any living thing they can get ahold of, from what Tick told me.”

“I’m so sorry, Q. I almost got us killed.”

“You didn’t know . . . neither did I. It wasn’t your fault. It was nice—I mean, until that thing showed up.”

Eliot propped himself up on one elbow to face his friend.

“I took you up there because I wanted to create this perfect moment for us.”

“For us? What do you mean, El?”

“I wanted it to be something you’d remember, no matter how things worked out.”

“You told me you loved me,” Quentin said suddenly. “Just before I passed out.”

“You remember that?”

“It was real, wasn’t it? When I woke up, I thought maybe I’d dreamed it or—or that I made it up.”

“No, Q. It was real. It just wasn’t what I’d planned when I took you up to that glen. In fact, it’s just about as far from that perfect moment as could be possible.”

“Maybe there aren’t any perfect moments, El.” Quentin laid a hand over Eliot’s. “Only perfect chances.”

Eliot paused for the space of a heartbeat as one of Quentin’s fingers traced over the back of his hand.

“Like this one?”

“Exactly like this one.”

“Then let me take it.” Eliot caught Quentin’s gaze, held it. “I’m in love with you, Quentin.”

The younger magician’s gaze filled with warmth and hope as he slid his fingers in between Eliot’s.

“Me too—I mean, I feel the same way. I just didn’t know how to tell you.”

Eliot sat up and tugged Quentin up with him before touching his face.

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, El! Jesus, why would I lie about something like that? I think I’ve been in love with you since Brakebills but I was scared that someone like you could never love anyone like me.”

“Don’t put me on a pedestal, Q. I’m not as untouchable as you think.”

“I hope not. Because I do love you, El.” He leaned forward, his long lashes sweeping down as his eyes closed halfway and Eliot accepted the offer, pressing his lips to Quentin’s, drinking him in like a dying man in a desert who’d finally reached an oasis. As he slid his arms around the man he planned to spend the rest of his life with, whether it was here in Fillory, on earth, or some other place they had yet to discover, Eliot knew that home was here, in Quentin’s embrace.

_Maybe there is such a thing as a perfect moment after all_, Eliot thought to himself. _Because this certainly feels like one. _

_Fin _


End file.
